Nourishing My Biting Contempt
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) A march to the death — he knows what it is that he must do. Vlad Olgimsky Jr from Pathologic 2 centric. Rated mature for canon character death.


Burakh stares at him, harder than the stone bricks Vladislav leans against. His coat is dirty and he can feel how the coarseness of the brick digs into his back.

He seems past anger, beyond disgust. It is the same distant acceptance that Vladislav thinks he has for himself.

"Does a son answer for his father's actions?" Artemy asks, even though he knows the answer.

"No," Vladislav replies, "Only his own."

"Is that how you rationalize?"

"Yes. Now, I will be going. I have somewhere to be."

He thinks that Burakh would have tried to stop him before his mind was set. It's why he came, after all. This time, he allows Vladislav to walk past him, without resistance, or even a hand held out at his side.

* * *

When he arrived at this town, he was almost thirteen, and he had met kids like Burakh, and he got sick during the spring. It's different to think about head colds and sinus infections now.

* * *

He's gotten used to the air. He always has been used to the air. The ones who complain weren't born in fall. Some of the people around the Town say that if you are born in autumn that your lungs carry twyre seeds and it's how you can breathe their heavy scent. Vladislav always thought it was true, even if Capella shook her head every time.

It's another weight he can carry, as he turns through the roads. It is best to take the long route, the proper route. Cutting corners is how they got to this place. The train station leads him through the warehouses, after all. He doesn't trust the remaining men under Grief's hand to not turn on an Olgimsky. The name carries too much, like an overloaded pack mule.

The air is different when he draws closer to the lingering infections. When the dust has been swept and all that remains are people picking up the pieces. Vladislav keeps his mouth shut and his teeth clenched together. He doesn't want to think about it. He really doesn't want to think about it. But he must. He has to.

There is a disease that lingers in the brick, like it's all alive, breathing its own waste and squalor. The disease gathers in the dirt like rain turns to mud, thick and hard to wander through. It's like sand, but he feels the silt remain. Vladislav covers his mouth with his gloved hand to try and breathe, to try and keep nausea down, feeling the remaining sickness stir in dry air.

He reminds himself it is worse further in town. North of his namesake's home. In the heart of the Town, weaving towards the theatre like a flooding canal. There is a bridge between the stomach and its innards and the hide of the beast-town. Vladislav knows it doesn't matter if he catches the pest minutes before his atonement — he knows he's a dead man. He only hopes if his body is torn that the seeds and toxins don't catch in other people.

The Termitary is hard to ignore. When his father had the buildings created, he told Vladislav that they were intentional. Vladislav wonders now if they're just one of the many tumours stuck into the beast, malignant and obstructive. Its tall walls shadow the road, and he feels dwarfed beside the lump of earth they couldn't pave.

A figure, lean and spindle-shaped, stands at the curve of the road. Vladislav looks at their strange mask and how they hold their human-but-not hand over where their heart should be. He doesn't think they were here before.

"Are you lost?" he tries, but he knows that's not the right thing to ask.

"Am I? I don't believe I am, sir," they say. Their mask is white, but looks dirty, but looks clean. "Are you?"

"No. I know every road in this town."

"Are you certain? Did you build the roads? Did you pave the way?"

"I have to remember the routes. Are you going to let me pass?"

"There's no reason for me not to." As Vladislav walks, the figure turns itself. "Inside, they will hurt you."

"I know," Vladislav replies.

"They want to cut you open!"

"They can't. They aren't allowed."

"They're in there because they can. We learned about what they could do, so we made sure they could work!"

"You had..." Vladislav understands. He frowns. "Out of my way, spirit. I won't be tormented."

"I won't, I won't..." If they're mocking him, they're doing a poor job. Vladislav can feel them move, and when he stops to turn around, the masked individual gestures the hand from their heart towards him.

"Do you know that you were a choice?" they ask.

"Me?"

"Your fate was chosen. It could have been different. If the words were different..."

Vladislav lifts his hand and tentatively offers it in return. The masked individual takes it gently. He understands, now.

"Can I change it?" Vladislav asks.

"No. Not by you."

"I don't want it to," he says. "I hope no one else changes it."

The mask tilts their head. "This means we're not what we think we are."

"No, it doesn't," Vladislav says. Their hand feels like when you stick your fingers in the leftover bones of chickens and birds. Feeling for the wishbone that you can trade away. If he held them, instead of the mask holding him, then maybe he could gather them together and pinch them hard enough for him to feel it in his other hand. "Are you coming with me?"

"In passing," they say. As Vladislav turns, he listens to them, even as his hand falls loose from their finger bones. "You'll be different next time."

"I'm sure I will be," Vladislav muses, as the doors of the Termitary open.

* * *

He remembers the last time he was here. The drawings on the walls were smaller, made only by children. Now, they are tremendous.

There is a wall of men to catch him as he enters. Three of them walk towards him as he offers forward his hands.

"Olgimsky," one of the men in the crowd says. An older one. There is a child at his heels, no older than five.

Vladislav does not respond as they grab the hands he offers and hold them behind his back. There is a boot at the back of his knees, sharp and direct. He would be lying if he went to his grave admitting it did not hurt, sending electric pain up his body. The kick is what starts the agitation, and soon, Vladislav couldn't scream if he wanted to.

* * *

He doesn't sit down. That would be too unbecoming of him. His legs hurt.

There's very little light in the building to begin with. When Burakh looks down into the hole, it feels like he is swept in darkness.

"I see you're right where you want to be," Burakh says.

"So I am," Vladislav replies. He can feel his legs ache. Did they bruise his bones? Snap in half what carries blood? "Are you gloating, or are you here for another reason?"

"Personal business," Burakh replies. Vladislav resists the need to roll his eyes. "I can't get you out of there, you idiot."

"I don't want you to. Stop talking to me, before they throw you in here, too."

"What are you expecting to happen?"

Vladislav shrugs. "Starve to death, maybe? You'll have to ask them."

The man who broke his knee guides Burakh away from his prison hole. He cannot hear him speak. All is well. He closes his eyes and tries to pull his weight to his right leg instead.

"Are you hurting?" The masked apparition asks. Vladislav turns his head towards the corner that holds the least amount of light. The masked figure sits, left leg extended; right leg bent. Lucky devil. "Are you in pain? Do you need me to bring the doctor back?"

"Don't talk to me," Vladislav says. "I want to be left alone."

"The ones who lived here weren't allowed that luxury."

"I want it to be quiet."

"The ones who lived here weren't allowed that luxury."

"Enough."

The mask lowers their head. Vladislav feels his brow dampen with sweat. Above, the child who watched his legs break leans over the ledge.

"How soon?" she asks, but he realizes it isn't towards him. She looks at an adult beside her, who soothes her with their language. "I want to see when we teach him!"

Vladislav finally drops. Slowly, but it is down the flank of the stone wall, arms curled inward and hands around his arms. His legs don't bend the way they're meant to — he feels the relief rush down him, and then it is crossed once more with pain.

"He fell," she says. Her eyes are bright and brown and he can see them from here. He recognizes her as Tycheek's daughter. "He fell!"

"He's alive," a woman says. "Watch him breathe. He lives, yet."

* * *

Victoria is eight. Vladislav is ten. They live in the Capital and their parents are on the other side of the house discussing the benefits of moving east. Victoria sits at the piano, where their mother had left her when Father requested she joined the discussion.

"Are we moving to the dacha?" she asks.

"No," Vladimir replies, "it's a little farther than the dacha."

"Is it... like when we visited Emil?"

"No, no. Even farther. I don't think we've ever been there. Or know anyone who lives there."

Victoria looks at the piano keys. "I hope we get to bring the piano."

"We're bringing everything." Vladislav has a book in hand. It is about an explorer visiting the New World in the west, far across the oceans they'll never see. "I don't know what's out there, though. There might not even be a school."

"That's dumb. Of course there will be schools." Capella presses a key on the piano. She's not meant to play with it when there is 'official company' over, because it will distract Father's guests. "If there isn't, I'll find one."

"You can't _find_ a school, Capella. You _go_ to school."

"Then I'll make one." She presses another key on the piano, delicate and light, like she's trying to hide the sound. "You and Father will be responsible for whatever it is he does. So I want to be responsible for a school."

Vladislav puts away his book. "I suppose so."

* * *

They drag him from the tomb when they begin to haul the bodies of the slain worms into the same pit. The ones to cause the schism, as he heard them through the haze. Hands under his arms and in his hair, pulled like a body they don't want. He wonders if the earth will reject him like it rejected Isidor.

Vladislav is thrown on to his back. He can see some men and some women clench their hands but don't strike.

"The new healer will not assist us," one says. "How cruel. This would be faster with blades."

"Cruel, indeed," Vladislav replies. Some girl almost stomps her boot on to him, but is held back by two other girls at her sides.

One of the men, who seems to lead their mob for now, steps from the wall of bodies. He is older, with well-worn hands that were not meant to cut meat and hair that was cut with a knife. Vladislav hurts, with a shattered knee, with a deep exhausted fear that starts to swell in his stomach.

Next to the man is a woman, who is in turn crowded by the mysterious masked individual.

"It wasn't meant to be like this," the masked person says, their mournful little voice a bell in his ear. "Three thousand workers, all safe — it was a revival of history, if he could get them out!"

"We will leave your body here for your people to find you," the man says. He drops down, a knee on Vladislav's stomach. The last of the air in him is cut from him from the swelling.

There is no time for him to breathe in and fix the ache. The man brings his hands around Vladislav's throat. It is tight, and the flow of air and blood is cut off with the straining squeeze of his hands. Vladislav's own betray his resolve and grab at his killer, nails soft under his gloves.

He can't get his grip on him. There is minimal thrashing. Vladislav gags on air he can't catch and his eyes blow wide, wide, wide. He sees the lights, the stained walls, the watch of the Kin. Behind the man, he manages to kick, and the pain is sharp enough from his knees that he focuses on it for a fractioned second. His hands are wide and he could snap Vladislav's neck but he doesn't because this death is personal and intimate and they must watch him struggle.

He gags. He tries to cough. Vladislav stares at the shapes of a people he does not understand because he cannot understand. The hands the clamour around the man drop. His tongue feels thick and heavy until it stops feeling like anything. A shade of darkness encroaches over them — or maybe it's just Vladislav, or maybe it's all of them, or maybe it's the hand of the masked shape that drags down his eyes, taking him away.

Heave, heave. His body stills. The man rises, his hands bloodless.


End file.
